


Burned Down Their Hanging Trees

by orphan_account



Series: Wolf Like Me [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Feels, Angst, BAMF Stiles, Fluff, Hurt Derek, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know why either, Injury, M/M, Pack Feels, Pre-Slash, Protective Derek, the villians are still kind of trees
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>And it’s not that Stiles doesn’t appreciate the concern, because he does, he really does, but it‘s freaking him out, okay? Derek hasn’t said a single word since they reached the hospital,  and while the whole SuperAlpha bit was admittedly badass, Stiles is pretty embarrassed to have played Lois Lane for this latest Hale Pack production, which, oh yeah -</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>None of this aftercare shit makes any sense when Stiles is Not. Pack.</em>
</p>
<p>Now that Derek knows just how badly he's screwed up with Stiles, nothing is going to stop the Alpha from bringing his neglected pack member back into the fold - not even said pack member's own stubborn insecurities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. shines when the sunset shifts

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning - I'm not sure what the normal procedure for a clean break is, as I've only broken a bone once and the break was _anything_ but clean. So I don't know if any hospitals will actually cast a bone the same day that it's broken, but I kind of needed to hurry Stiles out of there so, sorry if it's inaccurate. :)

 

It’s not that Stiles doesn’t appreciate the concern.

He expects Derek to drop him off on the hospital steps a la orphan at a nunnery and make a run for it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he carries Stiles in and growls irritably at the nurses that try to whisk Stiles away, which, hey, if they want to whisk Stiles away to somewhere that has prescription painkillers then Derek should really stop being so butthurt about it.

Derek doesn’t let Stiles go until they find Melissa McCall, who only looks a little horrified at the sight of her son’s best friend dangling limply from a shirtless ex-convict’s muscular arms now that she knows about the whole werewolf situation. She finds a scrub top for Derek and a curtained-off section of the ER for Stiles, then instructs Derek to put him on the bed - which Derek does gently, so so gently like Stiles is a baby bird or some shit, what the actual fuck - and Stiles figures that now, _now_ Derek will pull a Houdini and escape from the Stilinski chatter-trap before it springs.

But Derek is still there when the doctor comes in, and he’s still there when the radiological technician brings the portable x-ray, and he’s still there when they twist his leg into all sorts of creative and painful positions to get a good picture. And he’s still quietly brooding next to Stiles’ bedside when they call his dad, who Stiles and Ms. McCall have to talk to for a good hour before they can convince him not to fly back from his conference immediately.

And then the doctor diagnoses a break in his tibia and another in his fibula, but both are clean breaks and the swelling isn’t terrible so they get to work casting it. Then they schedule him a follow-up appointment, prescribe him some Vicodin and hand him a pair of crutches. As soon as Stiles gets the hang of walking with them, he’s maneuvering his way out of the hospital and into the orange glow of a California sunset.

With Derek.

And it’s not that Stiles doesn’t appreciate the concern, because he does, he really does, but it‘s freaking him out, okay? Derek hasn’t said a single word since they reached the hospital,  and while the whole SuperAlpha bit was admittedly badass (and being carried against Derek’s bare chest was, well, _hnnngh_ ) now that Stiles isn’t out of his mind with panic and pain, he’s pretty embarrassed to have played Lois Lane for this latest Hale Pack production, which, oh yeah -

None of this aftercare shit makes any sense when Stiles is _Not. Pack._

Stiles isn’t one to let something like this go, especially when he’s got a couple pills of Vicodin to loosen his tongue; so while they’re walking out to the Camaro, Stiles goes in for the kill.

"I hope this doesn’t sound unappreciative but what the hell are you doing?"

Derek blinks, then shifts his eyes away. "What," he asks, probably aiming for irritated-at-the-human but landing right in the fucking middle of oh-shit-the-human-caught-me instead.

"Dude, don’t even," Stiles says. He hasn’t yet figured out how to flail with crutches, so he settles for jerking his eyes frantically from Derek’s stony gaze to the hand that’s hovering just behind Stiles’ shoulder, ready to right him if he stumbles (which has happened a few times on this walk because _crutches are difficult okay_? It’s not like he has a lot of luck at regular walking in the first place).

But it’s not Stiles’ clumsiness that’s weird - it’s that Derek has caught him _every damn time_.

Without grumbling.

Derek rolls his eyes which is comforting in its familiarity. Instead of answering, he herds Stiles into the backseat of the Camaro and Stiles puts a pause on his inquiries because he’s suddenly busy batting away Derek’s hands as they try to help him lay back across the seat, because _no_. He’s a big boy now; he doesn’t need tucked in. He flops down and stretches across the full length of the seat all on his own, and then wiggles around a little while raising his eyebrows at Derek, smirking smugly because _hell yeah_ he’s an independent human who don’t need no Alpha - even though his back does kind of hurt because he didn’t so much lower down as crash, but whatever.

Derek raises his eyebrows right back, unimpressed. And then Derek is leaning in, reaching for something, and he’s -

\- _buckling Stiles in._

" _What the fuck!"_ Stiles does _not_ screech, but he’ll admit that it’s a near thing. Derek’s hand is sliding under the small of his back to lift his hips up and work the seatbelt under him and Stiles’ brain fizzles out because _what -_ "What the fuck are you doing!? Oh my god, _why_."

Derek finishes - _oh my god_ \- buckling Stiles in, but instead of pulling away, he braces his arms against the back of the passenger’s seat and the top of the backseat, and then he just - hovers. Over Stiles. And stares.

At Stiles.

Oh my _god_.

"Stiles," he rumbles, voice low and calm. "Shut up."

Possibly the most unusual part of this day is that Stiles does exactly that.

-

The trip home is quiet. From this angle, Stiles can just make out Derek’s profile: the cut of his jaw and the slope of his neck. Stiles knows that Derek isn’t exactly a careful driver but this time the ride is oddly smooth, with no sudden accelerations or screeching halts. Derek’s hands on the driving wheel are steady and sure.

The Vicodin adds a dreamlike quality to it all and the whole thing is so surreal that Stiles has the crazy thought that he and Derek will keep driving, and keep driving, and keep driving, past all of the teenage werewolves and trigger-happy hunters, past his mom’s hospital room and his dad’s liquor cabinet, past Derek’s burnt-out shell of a home and the mistakes he made when he was sixteen and in love. Maybe they’ll drive straight out of Beacon Hills, maybe they’ll drive off the edge of the Earth and then maybe they’ll just keep driving, him and Derek, onto and past forever.

Maybe Stiles wouldn’t mind that so much.

The same inexplicable calm that overtook Stiles in the clearing washes over him again. He remembers how warm Derek’s palm had been, how gently his fingers had curled around the back of Stiles’ neck. The soft pressure and then - peace.

_"I’m here."_

Stiles stares at the jut of Derek’s cheekbone until the sway of the Camaro and the growl of its engine carry him into sleep.


	2. my mind has changed

When Stiles wakes up again in his own bed he figures, well, that’s the end of that.

He flops his arm around for his phone and finds it on the nightstand. _3:13_ _a.m._ it reads, and Stiles figures they left the hospital around 7:00 or so, so nope, he’s not getting back to sleep tonight.

When he sits up, the blanket falls away to reveal the ratty lacrosse t-shirt and oversized basketball shorts that he uses as pajamas. Which means - he sure as hell wasn’t wearing this at the hospital, so -

Nope. Nope nope nope. Stiles pushes away the thought of Actual Werewolf Derek Hale getting anywhere near his pants’ zipper. He lets himself forget that and all the other weirdness that has occurred in the past 24 hours, because he’s sure that the next time he sees Derek, he’ll be the same emotionally-repressed asshole that he usually is and everything will be back to normal and no one will know that Derek maybe possibly might have seen his Batman boxers up close and personal, _god._

Stiles must be on a shit ton of Vicodin because he actually feels up to getting out of bed, even though he knows it’s probably a fantastically shitty idea. The cast is cumbersome and difficult to untangle from his blankets and when he finally sets both feet on the floor he considers pulling them right back up again because wow, that was not worth it. Now he’s achy and exhausted, and he’s wondering how the hell he’s going to fight his way through the pure chaos that is the Beacon High hallways when spring break ends. He figures that he better start practicing now, pain be damned.

Luckily, his crutches are leaning against the wall right next to his bed. He stands up without any mishaps and shuffles slowly out of his room into the dark hall. He feels like maybe he’s gotten the hang of walking, so he’s pretty sure it’ll be smooth sailing to the kitchen.

Until he’s staring down the stairs with a sort of hopeless amusement.

He knows he shouldn’t - the staircase is so narrow, and he really isn’t that proficient at crutch navigation yet - but he’s not going to wait around like a princess in her lofty tower because he’s already filled his quota of damsel in distress moments for his _entire fucking life_.

Just before he touches his good foot on the first stair, something snags the back of his shirt.

Stiles screeches and flails hard enough that he almost tumbles head first down the stairway but suddenly an arm is around his waist to hold him back which is _oh my god_ so much worse because someone is in his house and they have him and Stiles frantically tries to recall the several hiding spots where his dad stashes his guns and which one is closest to him and _how is he going to fight with a broken leg he is going to die oh my god -_

"Stiles!"

The bark stills him instantly. He twists his torso around to face his intruder.

"Derek?" he squeaks.

"What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?" Derek asks, his eyes still their normal color but managing to look pretty pissed off all the same.

His hair looks ridiculous, ruffled and matted down on one side. He’s wearing sweatpants that sit low on his hips and nothing else, and Stiles tries _very very very_ hard not to think about all that bare skin pressed against him through the thin material of his t-shirt, thought he does regret not bothering to stop by a light switch or two earlier so he could appreciate the sight in better lighting.

"Are you - were you sleeping?" Stiles asks, incredulous. "Wait - do werewolves sleep? I mean, Scott does, but you’re so _creature of the night_ -ish and creatures of the night don’t sleep during the night but you’re around during the day, so-"

"Are you serious," Derek huffs, looking offended.

"So you were sleeping?" Stiles asks. " _Where?_ "

"Your dad’s room," Derek answers. Derek’s arm slips away and the werewolf positions himself between Stiles and the staircase, leveling Stiles with an accusing look.

"Where did you think you were -"

"My _dad’s_ room?" Stiles cuts him off. "You were sleeping in _my dad’s_ room?!"

Derek crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows in exasperation. Or anger. Or, hell, maybe hunger - Derek uses his eyebrows to express basically every emotion he’s capable of feeling.

"I _was_ ," he snaps. "before I had to stop some _idiot_ from taking a swan dive off the staircase."

"I would have been fine," Stiles insists, but he can’t stop himself from glancing down and shuffling his crutches guiltily.

"Your heartbeat skipped, which means even you know that’s a lie."

"I would have been _fine_ ," Stiles mutters again anyway.

Derek rolls his eyes and hooks two fingers in Stiles’ shirt collar. His knuckles brush against Stiles’ collarbone and Stiles congratulates himself for only holding his breath for a millisecond.

"Back to bed, kamikaze," the Alpha orders, tugging insistently. "Let’s go."

Derek leads and Stiles follows, only putting up a token protest as he’s guided down the hall. Stiles’ awkward shuffle-swing-step makes it slow going. He expects Derek to get impatient, to growl and start dragging him along like a dog on a leash, but he doesn’t. Derek simply matches his pace and keeps him on course with gentle pulls to his shirt collar.

 _I know the way to my own bedroom_ , Stiles wants to snark, but the house is still and silent in a way that it only ever is at night, and the low lighting makes this all feel so much more intimate than it actually is. Stiles feels like he’s stealing something, here in the quiet darkness of his own home, but he has no idea what.

Stiles is released inside his bedroom and he sits on his bed with a sigh. Derek looms in front of him, face illuminated by the moonlight through the window but unreadable nonetheless.

"I’m hungry," Stiles protests.

"I’ll bring something up."

"I need to piss."

"There’s a perfectly good bathroom up here."

"I want to watch TV."

"You’re staying upstairs, Stiles," Derek says. He doesn’t even have the grace to look pissed off; he just stands with such a zen expression that Stiles is tempted to lean over and lick his abs just to see a look of utter shock on his face.

And, well, other reasons.

Derek reaches into the pocket of his sweats - no, _Stiles’_ sweats, the way-too-large gray ones that he has to knot all the way up the string just to keep them from falling off his ass - and pulls out a pill bottle. He opens it and shakes two Vicodin into his palm. Stiles holds out his hand and Derek passes the pills over while grabbing a glass of water that Stiles hadn’t noticed before off the nightstand. Stiles pops the pills into his mouth before taking the proffered glass, which he raises in a sarcastic cheer before drinking from deeply.

"What are you doing here, Derek?" he asks as he puts the glass back on the nightstand. "Why are you...?" Stiles gestures at the water glass helplessly.

 _Why are you helping me,_ he’s asking. _Why do you care._

"It’s my job to take care of you," Derek says. His intense gaze burns into Stiles’ eyes. "I’m your Alpha."

Stiles bursts out laughing.

It’s not, it’s not _funny_ \- but Stiles has to laugh, bitter and slightly hysterical, because they just had this argument. Derek _just_ told him that he was not part of his pack, hadn’t been for the nearly two years he had been Alpha even though Stiles had been _so sure_ , and now, just a week later, he’s saying the exact opposite.

"Since _when_?" Stiles gasps, bending over even as his laughter starts to die down. "You were pretty fucking clear last week. I’m _not pack_ , remember?"

Derek’s eyes flash red. "Don’t say that," he growls. It’s not a command, but a warning.

" _You_ said it!" Stiles shouts. His laughter is gone and he’s left clenching his fists and glaring up at the Alpha that is very much _not his_.

Derek steps forward and grabs both sides of Stiles’ head. It’s such a shockingly tactile move for Derek that the rant Stiles was gearing up for stalls and dies.

"I was wrong," Derek says fervently. "You were right, Stiles. You’re pack. You’ve always been pack. Out in the woods, you - you _howled_ for me. I don’t know how, but you _did_. You _are_ pack."

Stiles gets one look at Derek’s painfully earnest expression and deflates. Jesus, the guy really means it.

"No, Derek," he says morosely. " _You_ were right."

"What -"

"I _am_ weak," Stiles interrupts. The words spill out of his mouth fast because he doesn’t want to be this pathetic for any longer than necessary. "I’m a liability to the pack. I mean fuck, I was taken out by a _tree_ yesterday. I don’t blame you for kicking me out - it’s good, it was a good decision, I understand. I thought I was, you know, a strategist or a researcher or something but you guys all know how to use Google. You don’t need me - I’m not pack, I shouldn’t be, it’s okay."

Stiles expects Derek to look relieved.

He looks like he’s been _shot_.

"No -" Derek chokes out. His hands drop from Stiles head to his shoulders. "What - Stiles, you can’t -"

Stiles awkwardly pats one of Derek’s impressive pecs.

"It’s okay, big guy," he says again, injecting his voice with some false cheer. He’s been thinking about this all week, and really it is for the best. It sucks, but he’d do just about anything for the pack, even if that includes walking away from it. "If you need some advanced Google-Fu, I’m still totally your guy. Just, give me a call, or have Scott drop by -"

"But you _howled_ for me," Derek says quietly, desperately. Stiles has to look away because Derek’s eyes are twisting a knife in his gut.

"I screamed," Stiles admits, kind of embarrassed about it. "I guess you heard that."

That must be the exact wrong thing to say because Derek is suddenly enraged. He growls deep and loud in Stiles’ face and then shakes him sharply. Stiles hasn’t been afraid of Derek for quite awhile but he’s never, never seen Derek like this, this angry or this close. He tries to flinch back but Derek’s grip is pure steel.

"You _idiot_!" he snarls. His fangs flash in the moonlight. "You were on the other side of the _fucking forest_. Even with my hearing, there’s no way I would have heard you from that far."

He leans in and presses his face against the side of Stiles’, breathing deeply.

"You _howled_ for _me_ ," he says, voice quiet and strained, but certain.

Stiles pushes at Derek until he obliges and moves back, albeit reluctantly.

"That doesn’t change the fact that I’m weak," Stiles points out.

"Stiles," Derek warns lowly. The hands on Stiles’ shoulders clench.

"Can you say that I’m not?" Stiles shoots back, just as low. "Can you look me in the eyes right now and tell me that you don’t think I’m weak? Can you, Derek?"

The silence stretches out between them.

It’s all the answer that Stiles needs.

"Pack isn’t something you earn, Stiles," Derek finally speaks up. "It just _is_."

"Derek, I can’t," Stiles says, his voice going thin as he fights back _fucking pathetic_ tears. "I can’t be part of the pack if I’m only going to drag it down."

He shrugs off the older man’s hands. They fall, and Derek looks like he’s been defeated - but Stiles feels like he’s the one that’s lost. Stiles starts to choke on his rising tears and he shoots Derek a beseeching look that means _please leave._ Derek backs up slowly, but he’s shaking his head.

"This isn’t over, Stiles," Derek insists. "I’m not leaving you again. You’re my pack, you’re _mine._ "

Stiles sobs, just once, because that’s exactly everything he’s wanted to hear at exactly the wrong time. _Too late, too late_ , he wants to scream at Derek. _You’ve told me that you don’t want me and you can’t just take that shit back._

He bites his lips and clenches his eyes shut instead. He’s a wounded animal; he’s bleeding out and he just wants Derek to _leave_. No one gets to see him cry, fucking _no one_. He curls in on himself and waits for everything to disappear.

Stiles’ door shuts. He expects to hear footsteps down the stairs and the sound of the front door opening, but instead he hears the door to his dad’s room open then close with a soft _snick._

Stiles throws himself sideways and begins to cry in earnest, huge shuddering sobs that are barely muffled by his pillow. He tells himself that he’s imagining the broken whine that comes from the room down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pow! Right in the feels.


	3. it's hot here hot here hot here hot here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles fumbles in his pocket for his cell phone and has the first digit of 9-1-1 dialed before a horrible thought strikes him. His phone falls from nerveless fingers.
> 
> “Where’s Derek,” he asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four chapters instead of three! My poor planning bites me again.
> 
> Also, I've started to title the chapters despite the face that I'm terrified I'm going to run out of "Wolf Like Me" lyrics before this verse ends. Terrified, guys.
> 
> (un-betaed and barely proofread. Sorry!
> 
> Also, is "rightest" a word? Or is it "most right"? Damn superlatives.)

When Stiles wakes up again, he blinks his eyes open to the sight of someone blinking back.

Stiles swings his fist out and connects with pure _granite_. Cursing, he brings his fist back to his chest and tries to scramble out of bed, but his cast tangles with his sheets and his torso falls while his legs remain caught in the bedding. His head hits the floor with a solid _whack_ that leaves him seeing stars.

"Stiles!" a voice shouts and someone scrambles onto the bed, then Scott’s face is hovering over him again, peering at him from the edge of the bed. He has the decency to look guilty.

"What the hell, dude?" Stiles groans. Scott offers him a hand and Stiles grabs for it, letting Scott put his wereroid muscles to good use and pull him up. "What are you doing here?"

"I’m taking care of you, bro!" Scott answers. He reaches to the nightstand and brandishes a plate of chocolate pancakes. He offers it with a smile that is so fucking bright and infectious that Stiles is instantly beaming back.

"FInally giving those McCall nursing skills a test run?" Stiles quips, taking the plate. Scott laughs and nods. He watches expectantly as Stiles stares at the pancakes.

"You gonna eat those, man?" he questions after a long moment of silence.

"Um," Stiles peers up at Scott, feeling a rush of fond amusement for his numero uno bro. "Don’t you think you’re forgetting something, Nurse McCall?"

A long-suffering, melodramatic sigh sounds from his doorway. Both boys look up to see Jackson walk in, wielding a fork.

"Seriously, McCall?" Jackson drawls, standing to the side of the bed and handing Stiles the utensil. Stiles nods his thanks and digs into his breakfast with gusto.

"Oh!" Scott chuckles. He grins lopsidedly at Stiles. "Sorry."

Stiles waves him off with his fork, somehow managing to fling crumbs onto Jackson in the process. The man sighs again, louder.

"So this is an odd pair," Stiles comments around a mouthful of pancake. Jackson scrunches his nose in disgust as he sits on the bed. Scott’s smile falls into a puzzled frown.

"That’s the weird thing," Scott answers. "When Derek called to tell me about your leg, he told me that he needed to see Allison. Like, _immediately_."

"And Lydia," Jackson interjects, because honestly there aren’t a lot of people that get a mention from Scott when Allison is involved in the story.

"Yeah," Scott nods, eyebrows furrowing. "But when we got here, he just stared at them for awhile. And then he grabbed the back of Allison’s neck."

"And told Lydia to scream," Jackson adds.

The two werewolves stare at Stiles expectantly. Stiles raises his eyebrows.

"If you’re waiting for an explanation, we’re gonna be here awhile," he says.

"It was so weird, man!" Scott whines. "If Allison had her crossbrow, Derek would be so dead right now. We all thought that maybe he had gone feral or something."

"So where are they now?" Stiles asks, setting his empty plate aside.

"Allison kicked him in the balls," Jackson says with the sympathetic wince of someone who knows exactly how that feels. "And then her and Lydia stormed off."

Scott frowned and made his _Allison-is-not-in-the-general-vicinity_ face as if to confirm this.

"And then Derek told us to stay and watch you while he went home to figure something out," Jackson continues.

"He looked really upset, Stiles," Scott ends the story, and both boys stare at Stiles with a look that tells him that their super werewolf sight has picked up on his puffy eyes, the salty tear tracks down his cheeks. Stiles swipes at his face self-consciously and takes a deep breath.

"Alright," he mutters, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Startled, the werewolves scramble off the mattress. Jackson hands Stiles his crutches while Scott watches with a concerned expression.

"You probably shouldn’t be out of bed," he says. "And Derek told us very specifically not to let you down the stairs."

"Since when do we listen to Derek?" Stiles shoots back, making his way out the door. He twists around when he realizes that only Jackson is following him. "Look bro, do you want to find out what’s up with Derek or do you want him to go for Allison’s throat again?"

It’s a low move and he knows it - Derek wouldn’t hurt Allison, he’s certain - but it works and Scott is ushering him out of the room.

"Into the woods!" Stiles shouts. Scott takes the lead with a determined expression while Jackson simply rolls his eyes and slinks out behind them.

-

When they pull up to the Hale house in Jackson’s Porsche, the other three Betas are pounding down the steps in a jumbled panic. Stiles bites back his knee-jerk comment - _where’s the fire -_ because Jesus, it’s the _Hale house_.

"Who’s trapped down a well this time, Lassie?" he goes for instead, because dog jokes are usually a pretty safe bet.

But no one responds. Jackson and Scott are tipping their heads back, and all of the Hale Betas are simultaneously scenting the air. Stiles looks down to situate himself on his crutches, and when he glances back up, all of them are wolfing out, growling and snarling.

"Woah, what’s going on?" Stiles asks, trying not to panic. He leans closer to Scott. "Mind filling me in?"

"Fire," Scott rumbles, eyes flashing. Stiles’ stomach swoops because Jesus, it’s the _Hale house_.

But when he looks back up to the mansion, he doesn’t see any flames - just the glitter of afternoon sunlight off the windows. The building looks as perfect as it did the day remodeling was finished, nearly a year ago now. Stiles had thought the pack would have to bully Derek into fixing it up, but in the end they had come over for training and had been handed nails and power tools and lumber without a word. It had been Derek’s decision, and he had decided to give the pack a home.

The thought of another fire makes Stiles shudder.

But there is no fire, not near the house anyway. Stiles has to turn his head clear to the left before he sees smoke, just at the edge of the forest, miles away. Miles from the house, thank fuck.

Still - the flames look like they’re spreading, and _fast_.

Stiles fumbles in his pocket for his cell phone and has the first digit of _9-1-1_ dialed before a horrible thought strikes him. His phone falls from nerveless fingers.

"Where’s Derek," he asks the Betas, his voice hoarse and flat. Isaac’s golden-glowing eyes flicker to him and then to the trees with a low growl. Scott’s fangs lengthen and Jackson snarls. Erica and Boyd are already running, already out of sight. Stiles gets a hand curled into Scott’s shirt just before he takes off and yanks that mess of fangs and furry sideburns close.

"Take me with you," he half-demands, half-pleads. Scott nods and Stiles is on Scott’s back barely a second later, his crutches held tight between the press of Stile’s stomach and Scott’s back, trees whizzing past and werewolves flanking him on all sides as he’s piggy-backed through the forest.

Even with supernatural speed, the journey takes several minutes. Stiles sends the first minute clinging desperately to Scott and trying not to think of Derek surrounded by flames. Tying not to remember the Hale case file, the pictures of burnt bodies, lifeless and mangled and black.

He spends the rest of the journey focused on not throwing up.

They reach their goal and are blocked by a wall of flames. The Betas split up and circle the fire, sniffing and snarling and Stiles doesn’t need anyone to tell him that Derek is in there, Derek is definitely in there and they need to get him _out_.

Finally, he sees it - a footpath clear of trees that isn’t alight yet. Stiles points to it and Scott hesitates.

Stiles knows that all werewolves are skittish of fire, one of the very few things that can do them real damage. Hell, it’s not like the dancing flames on either side of the path are inspiring much confidence in Stiles, either. But Derek is in there, and even if he isn’t Stiles’ Alpha or even his friend - well, he’s still _something_. He’s still someone _good._

Determined, Stiles wiggles and beats at Scott’s shoulders until the werewolf reluctantly sets him down.

Stiles gets his crutches under his armpits and starts off, knowing Scott will follow him despite the danger, because that’s how buddies are. That’s how _they_ are, with Scott following Stiles through the forest to find half a body and Stiles following Scott through the forest to find the Hale house and now Scott following Stiles through the forest, through the fire, to find Derek Hale.

It’s a vicious cycle.

But then a crack and an enraged roar have Stiles turning around to see a fallen, flaming branch blocking the path behind him, trapping him in and Scott out.

Scott steps forward, ready to charge.

"Stop!" Stiles shouts. "Stay there! Scott, _don’t_."

Scott falters and stares at him, his wolf features twisted in confusion and worry.

"I’m fine, I’ll be fine," Stiles swears. "I’ll find Derek and he’ll bring me back, okay? I’ll be _fine_."

Scott whines, a tortured sound that starts low in his throat and slowly builds in volume. Stiles hears answering whimpers from the other Betas before they all appear behind Scott, their eyes wide and flashing.

Stiles appreciates the concern but has no time for it. Already, the heat from the fire is making sweat drip down the back of his neck. He’s breathing in smoke and he knows he doesn’t have very long before his lungs are damaged. He turns away from the werewolves, ignoring their roars and whimpers, and starts down the path.

Normally, finding his way through fire would be extremely difficult, but with crutches it’s damn near impossible. After a few yards one of them catches on fire and Stiles throws it away, biting back a scream as he feels his hand catch aflame also. He drops to his knee, his casted leg stretched out in front of him and protesting painfully, and bats his hand in the dirt until the flame goes out. He doesn’t look at it afterwards, can’t stand to.

He remembers fire safety day in elementary school, recalls the little one-room playhouse that the firefights would pump full of fake smoke and take the kids into, five at a time, to practice fire drills. _Crawl on the floor,_ the firefighters would say. _Keep low, away from the smoke._

Stiles abandons his remaining crutch and starts crawling army-style, belly dragging through hot ashes and soot as he uses all of his good limbs to pull the useless one along. It’s a slow, frustrating process that reminds Stiles too much of the kanima, of trying to reach his phone as a man faced death before him.

But this time it isn’t some asshole mechanic that needs him - it’s _Derek_ and that shouldn’t make a difference but it _does._

Finally, _finally_ , after what feels like a terrifying eternity in hell, Stiles catches sight of Derek. He’s in the clearing that Stiles broke his leg in and he’s just _standing_ there, eyes glowing red but glazed over. He’s completely checked out, and Stiles can see the flames reflected in Derek’s eyes as he gazes at them, and Stiles knows what he’s thinking, what he’s remembering, and he needs him to _stop_.

"Derek!" he yells, desperate. "Derek, come on!"

Derek doesn’t respond.

Belly-down in the dirt, surrounded by fire, broken and burnt and in so much more pain than he can stand, Stiles feels useless. Tears sting his eyes and Stiles thinks, hysterically, _no fucking way is Derek Hale making me cry again._

But there’s nothing he can do. He can’t carry Derek out of here, can’t even stand up and walk himself out of here, can’t do a single fucking thing because he’s human. Because he’s _weak_.

 _"You howled for me,"_ he suddenly remembers Derek saying. Derek had sounded so sure and even a little awestruck, like it was some amazing feat, like it wasn’t just Stiles screeching in the dirt like a pussy. Like Stiles had done something astounding, something sacred.

Stiles stares at the man before him - the wolf - the Alpha - _his Alpha_ \- and knows what he has to do.

He opens his mouth.

He screams.

He _howls_.

It’s instantaneous. Every muscle in Derek’s body tenses and his head whips around; his nostrils flare. His blood red eyes pin Stiles to the ground. Stiles gapes back, ensnared by the power in the wolf’s intense gaze. The resounding feeling of _Alpha_ running between them feels like an electrical current, a livewire, and Stiles starts to shake. He doesn’t understand what’s going on - he feels primal, feral, _frightened_ and he longs for Derek’s hand on the back of his neck like he sometimes still longs for his mom’s lips on his forehead. He trembles _hard_ and a wretched sound tears itself from his throat, something between a whimper of distress and a moan of pain. He’s losing control of himself and he needs Derek to hold him together, he needs his Alpha so badly that he digs his blunt, human nails into the dirt and pulls his body forward, trying to drag himself the last few steps to Derek and lay at his feet until the whole forest catches aflame and the fire consumes them both.

The movement breaks whatever spell Derek is under and between one breath and the next Derek is lifting him up, up into his arms. Stiles grasps at his shirt with his unburnt hand and butts the crown of his head against Derek’s chin, again and again, and he’s come back to himself just enough to know that he’s doing something weird but he still can’t stop.

Derek rumbles. It’s a low, comforting sound - somewhere between a growl and a purr. Held tight against Derek’s chest, Stiles can feel it more than hear it and it feels _good_. He drops his head to Derek’s shoulder and stares at his neck through half-lidded eyes, inexplicably soothed.

Stiles doesn’t realize they’re moving until they’re away from the fire. Clean air fills Stiles’ lung and he gets one good breath of it before he’s coughing incessantly, barely able to breathe. Derek shifts him until Stiles’ face is pressed against Derek’s neck and he’s hacking into Derek’s collarbone which is _gross_ but Derek just rumbles again, like Stiles spluttering on him is the rightest thing in the world.

Stiles pulls back when he hears sirens, realizing they’re reaching the end of the woods. He can see all of the Hale Betas staring at them from beside the house. A fire truck is pulling up with an ambulance following behind.

Derek pauses right at the edge of the tree line. Carefully, he sets Stiles back on his feet but keeps an arm around his shoulders, helping Stiles stay balanced on his one good leg. He holds him up while Stiles hacks and wheezes for a little longer, staring impassively at him before shifting his gaze to the ambulance and then down to Stiles’ burnt hand. Stiles tries to look at it too but Derek immediately catches Stiles’ chin, jerking his face up to meet Derek’s eyes.

"Don’t look at it," Derek says, voice wolf-rough. He looks pained, and Stiles nods because he really, really doesn’t need to see how bad it is - he can _feel_ it.

"Derek, I need -" and then he’s coughing again but Derek nods, eyeing the ambulance with red eyes. The arm around Stiles’ shoulders tightens.

"I know what you need, pup," Derek rumbles. Stiles stops coughing just to splutter instead.

"I’m sorry, _what_?" he exclaims. " _What_ did you just call me!?"

Derek blinks and his eyes are their normal color. The scowl he levels Stiles with is indignant, like _Stiles_ is being offensive.

" _Stiles,_ " he huffs, exasperated.

"No, no, that is _not_ what you called me," Stiles wheezes, then squawks as Derek starts to walk out of the woods with Stiles in tow. "That is what you _should_ call me. If you ever, _ever_ say... _that_ again, then we are going to have _words_ , Hale. _Words_."

"I think we’re having more than enough words right now," Derek quips, amused.

"Well as long as none of those words are -" Stiles tries to say it and gets stuck on the "p"-sound. He stammers helplessly as Derek raises an eyebrow at him, smirking.

Luckily the paramedics come to save him. The herd him and Derek towards the ambulance and sit them both in the back. The pack tries to crowd in around them, but the paramedics glare them into submission and they stay in a loose half-circle around the ambulance, a fair distance away.

Scott inches closer every time the paramedics aren't looking, and it’s the most hilarious game of red-light-green-light Stiles has ever seen.

It’s not long before Stiles’ hand is wrapped and an oxygen max is strapped firmly over his nose and mouth. Derek is still beside him, perfectly uninjured and making fucking _small talk_ with the paramedics. _Werewolves._

The ambulance driver is trying to convince Stiles that he needs to go the hospital, but Stiles keeps shaking his head and eyeing the approaching fire with growing concern. The firefighters can’t get the truck anywhere near the flames, not with all those trees in the way, and it looks like they’re going to let it burn itself out. They stand at the ready around the house, waiting to defend it, but Stiles is pretty sure that if the entire forest is on fire there’s going to be fucking nothing they can do to save the pack’s home.

Stiles is adamant about staying, right up until the driver looks away just long enough for Derek to fix Stiles with a red-eyed _look_ , nostrils flaring. Stiles flinches away but then glares back, defiant. Derek growls and Stiles deflates.

"Fine," he grunts at the paramedics, and they’re loading him into the ambulance triumphantly. Scott jumps in behind him, patting at Stiles’ shoulders and grinning at him in that _can you believe the shit we’ve lived through_ way that they’ve both developed.

Just before the ambulance doors close, Stiles catches sight of Derek, his back to Stiles and his shoulders stiff as his pack surrounds him, pressing close and watching the forest blaze.


End file.
